


By Light of Moon

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's not ready to do this. He shouldn't do this. But he has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Light of Moon

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Thank you to [](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/profile)[**marinarusalka**](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

  
He shouldn't do this.

Sam hesitates, crouched on the bare wood floor of the cabin, staring into the half-dark. His brother's slow, even breaths are reassuring, not only because they mark his presence; it also means Dean is still asleep. He won't wake up and yell at Sam for going outside in the middle of the night without Dean or Daddy or even telling anyone.

He shouldn't do this, but he has to, surely Daddy and Dean will understand why he has to. After all, doesn't Dad want them to learn how to hunt? Dean gets to go with Dad on hunts sometimes. He's not allowed to do anything, just watch and learn, unless he's got to babysit Sam. Then neither of them hunt, they wait in the car and Sam is always scared Dad might not come back but he always does.

It's not like he's going to hunt anything large or dangerous.

Dad found an old book at a flea market and they spent a few evenings reading from it. At least Dad and Dean read out loud while Sam listened and asked questions until Dean finally told him to just hush up and listen, but Dad said no, the way to learn was to ask.

One of the monsters in the book didn't sound so scary, and it lived right in the area where they were staying. Dad had killed the werecat so Sam thought it would be safe enough for him to go out and see if he could catch himself a squonk.

It would make Dad proud but more than that, Sam thinks about how it will impress Dean. Dean already knows how to load a gun, how to lay salt lines; he knows all kinds of incantations and Latin and what to do about a hugag.

He reaches under his bed for the sack and the flashlight he'd hidden there after dinner. The cabin where they're staying is little and the floorboards creak so Sam takes careful steps as he goes past Dean's bed by the door. Moonlight has made everything look brighter than it should be, but still dark, so it's night yet not night. Maybe he won't even need the flashlight once he gets outside, but you never know, so he brings it anyway.

Maybe he should write a note. Sam knows how to write, big block letters, he could leave a note and put it on the bed next to Dean so in case Dean wakes up and Sam's not there Dean won't get scared. But if Sam stops to do that Dean might wake up too soon and he'll loose his chance to do the hunt. The hunt doesn't count unless he does it alone.

The curtains in the window sway a little in the wind. An owl hoots, a clear sound that's gentle but still makes him shiver, and Sam opens the bedroom door, wincing as the hinges creak. He should have thought of that and maybe opened the door before Dean fell asleep. But his brother just turns over and sighs.

Sam's got it all planned out.

There's no reason he can't go out hunting in his pajamas, so he doesn't bother to change, just picks up his sneakers and holds them along with the flashlight, the sack over his shoulder as he takes slow, deliberate steps through the main room with the fireplace. At one end is the kitchen, but Sam doesn't need to go there because he already hid the candy outside under the steps. If it worked in that movie he and Dean watched on TV last month, it might work on a squonk. Thinking about the movie was a mistake, though, because Sam was scared of the thing in the movie and he hoped the squonk was less scary. The illustration in Dad's book didn't make it look too scary, and the thing cried a lot so how frightening could it be?

Dad's snores are loud from the other bedroom. Sam's hand is on the outside door now, his heart beating faster than it ever has in his entire life, so fast he can hardly breathe and it's all he can do not to drop his bundle and race back into the bedroom and wake up Dean, persuade him to go hunt the squonk with him.

Sam bites his lip, his hand tightening on the doorknob.

The summer night is soft against him as he steps outside and inches the door shut behind him, and he's proud he can close it without making any sound at all. Not making any noise is important on a hunt. Unless Dad had to shout things in Latin or shout at Dean to duck or to get back.

Outside it's even brighter than inside, because of the moon, which is peering down at Sam through the spiky branches of the big trees. He gets the bag of Reese's Pieces out from its hiding place under the steps. Now it seems more real, what he's about to do, now that he's actually outside by himself at night. He can't remember ever being outside by himself at night and he's pretty sure Daddy would be angry at him and maybe Dean too.

Gravel jabs against the soles of his sneakers, then gives way to softer ground covered with the needles that have fallen from the big trees. The owl hoots again, louder now because Sam must be closer to its tree than before and again the sound is scary; but it comforts him too. It's as if the owl's talking. It hoots again as Sam moves farther away from the cabin and deeper into the forest.

He turns and stands still, looking back at the dark shape of the cabin. What if he gets lost? Sam turns on the flashlight and the beam goes straight and true until it breaks against the tree trunks. He'll just go a little farther, not so far he can't see the cabin anymore with its one tiny light burning in the window, the night light Dad keeps in his bag and then takes out when they get settled someplace. He's always plugging it in somewhere, even if they're at a familiar place like Pastor Jim's. The light is just a plain, white plastic one, even though Sam begged Dad to buy the Mickey Mouse-shaped one, but it was more expensive so Dad got the plain one instead. Sam's always known the night light was probably for him, so he won't get scared at night, but sometimes he thinks maybe it's for Daddy and Dean too.

But right now Sam knows it's for him; it'll guide him back. Because of the night light, it's okay to go a little farther into the woods on the hunt, because he'll see the light from a long way off even if the cabin's hard to see.

It's summertime, but the woods are cool and he wishes he'd been smart and grown-up enough to think to wear a sweater over his pajamas. There's a sharp, tangy smell on the air. Sam can almost spell Pennsylvania, but he can't remember the name of the part of Pennsylvania they're in, which has a funny name, apple-something. Dean can spell it, though, and knows all kinds of stuff about what kinds of ghosts and monsters live there. Sam can spell _Mississippi_ but that's because it's real fun to spell that one. He does it over and over in the car sometimes until Dean sinks down in the back seat and puts his hands over his ears and then even Dad snaps at Sam to stop or spell a different place.

Now it's time to remember everything Dad and Dean talk about. Walk quietly and look around a lot and make sure you have all your hunting tools. Well, Sam already took stock of what he needs but he checks against to make sure. He shrugs one shoulder to make the sack more comfortable over his shoulder. The flashlight's in one hand and the Reese's Pieces are in the other.

It's time to set the bait so Sam puts the flashlight on the ground, leaving it turned on, and tears open the bag with his teeth. He can't resist popping two of the candies in his mouth. But he won't let himself have more than that, the rest are for the squonk.

Sam pours the orange and brown candy out into a pile on the ground and then steps backwards until he's hidden behind one of the big trees covered in green needles. The bark has deep, rough ridges in it; the tree must be very old to look like that.

For a while he stands with his body leaning against the trunk, the flashlight aimed at the ground and the sack on the ground next to his feet. It's probably better if he saves the batteries, so he switches the flashlight off, and waits some more. Then he yawns.

There's a scrabbling noise behind him and as Sam turns sharply, he sees low branches twitching in the moonlight.

Maybe Dad didn't get all the werecats. Now it's hard to breathe again and he really, really shouldn't have gone outside alone like this and Daddy was going to be furious. His fingers dig into the bark behind him.

The branches settle and it's quiet again. When the owl hoots, his heart stops hammering at him so much.

He waits, and yawns, the woods blurring as his eyes water with sleepiness.

It's the sound of weeping that wakes him up, and he finds that he's sitting with his back against the tree, his forehead on his knees, although he doesn't remember doing that. The weeping is a soft, wet noise, not violent angry sobs, but wistful, as if it hopes someone will hear it and help. Sam slowly pushes himself to his feet, clutching the flashlight.

The moonlight outlines the creature, so Sam can see all the funny bumps and ridges along its back. Its big round eyes shine out in the dark, damp and mournful, like the eyes of the hound dog Sam patted on the front steps of the general store in town. Only this thing looks even more lost and dejected. It has a stubby little tail, skinny legs, and it's about to walk right by the pile of candy Sam left for it because it's so busy weeping.

He calls out to it in a whisper, coaxing it.

The thing stops, and two big fat tears drop down to the forest floor. Its round, broad head turns to look right at Sam, and pity almost makes him cry, the squonk looks so lonely. Sam crouches down and reaches out to grab a few pieces of the candy. He holds them out in the palm of his hand and whispers again, _here boy, it's okay._

The squonk's tail twitches like a dog's, hopeful, and it takes a step towards Sam's outstretched hand. A tongue shoots out, tickling his palm, and the candy's gone. The thing's nostrils flare, and then sits back on its haunches by the pile of candy and starts to eat.

Now comes the tricky part. He's got to get the squonk into the sack somehow. Sam shakes out more Reece's Pieces into the sack and slowly moves nearer to the creature, which is making whuffling, snouting noises amid the crunching. Up this close, Sam stops and stares, fascinated, watching the bumpy skin ripple over the bones and muscle; the thing is _real._ If he reaches out, he could touch it -- and that's too real. He draws his hand back, tucking it against his stomach.

Sam takes another step, guides the sack up around the squonk's snout, and when the beast doesn't stop its munching, he pulls the sack up farther. Now the sack covers the front half of the body. The squonk pauses, and the sack heaves with a loud sniffling noise. But it finds the Reece's Pieces that are inside the bag, and the back twitches as the squonk shifts forward so it can get to them.

All Sam has to do is tug the sack around the rest of its body. His hands shaking, he gives the creature's rump a push, and it sluggishly moves forward until it's all the way in the sack. Sam draws it closed, pushes the hair back from his face, crouches a minute to catch his breath, his heart hammering again.

A wind sighs through the branches, stirring them. He cranes his neck back to stare up through them at the moon, feeling a little dizzy. The sound of the squonk sniffling, crunching, and whimpering reminds him what he's there to do. Sam bunches the end of the sack up in his free hand. With the night light a distant gleaming spot, and the flashlight beam guiding his way, he tugs in the direction of the cabin.

It's slow going; his catch is heavy. He's afraid it might struggle, but it doesn't. After a few yards it flops over on its side with a grumpy sigh, almost like a big, tired dog.

After a while his shoulder starts to ache. It's going to take forever to get it back to the cabin, maybe even until sunrise and there are _things_ rustling through the woods. The flashlight beam dances ahead of him, and he's afraid that at any second he'll see the shiny flash of eyes from the shadows. Ahead of him the spot of light from the cabin grows larger, swimming in his vision, the shape of the cabin looming into view. His burden seems to grow lighter; he's almost there.

A few more yards, and he feels gravel under his feet and the squonk seems to weigh almost nothing at all. Maybe he's gotten stronger on the march back. Practice, like Daddy was always saying. An excited, shivery tingle goes up his back.

The wind gusts up and blows the sack forward like a flag, folding around Sam's legs.

He spins, the flashlight beam shooting back the way he'd come. There's no sign of the squonk. Sam opens the sack and aims the flashlight inside. Nothing in there either, not even a single piece of orange candy, although the flashlight beam catches something that gleams. He peers closer. Bubbles cling to the damp cloth.

Sam lowers the sack, frowning, the wind blowing his hair in his eyes, something like a lead ball settling into the middle of his stomach. The squonk is gone.

Exhaustion settles over him so he can barely lift his feet up the steps to the door. He reaches for the knob with the same hand that holds the trailing, empty sack.

The knob won't turn. A sob of frustration and fear bursts from him. He'd forgotten to press in the button so the door wouldn't lock behind him.

Sam remembers curtains blowing in the window of the bedroom he shares with Dean. Still clutching the sack and flashlight, Sam runs down the steps and around the side of the cabin. He stands beneath the window, looking up, and faces his third failure of the night: the window is too high for him to reach, even though the cabin is only one story.

He's about to yell for Dean when he sees the empty wooden crate leaning against the cabin. Sam drops the flashlight and the sack and tugs it over to the window. Then he gathers up his gear again, climbs up on the crate, so the sill is about even with his shoulders.

Sam tosses the sack and flashlight inside, wincing as the flashlight thuds onto the floor, but he can't climb and hold it at the same time. With his sneakers against the logs of the cabin wall, he hooks his arms over the sill and pulls himself through the window, crawling through until he lands safe on the floor of the bedroom.

He lies there beneath the window, curled up, too big to suck his thumb, so he puts his fist up against his mouth, fighting down another sob, this time of relief.

The sack goes under the bed, way at the back where Dean or Dad won't see it and ask why it's damp. Sam clicks off the flashlight and puts it back on the dresser where he'd found it, then yawns and shivers.

Dean's asleep on his back, one arm outflung into the room, the other hand brushing against the wall, the blanket up to his chest.

Fumbling with the laces, Sam takes off his sneakers and puts them side by side neatly on the floor by his own bed. He crawls under the covers and closes his eyes but keeps hearing the owl even though it's not hooting anymore, keeps seeing the moon through the trees, keeps seeing the bumpy sides of the creature he'd almost caught, the big, round mournful eyes.

For a moment, through the window, he thinks he sees sharp, small, clever eyes gleaming, another werecat, or a bobcat, or something else. He's not sure if there are wolves in Pennsylvania but there might be and it hits him all at once, a sudden weight in his chest, that he had been outside, alone, in the forest and what would Dean and Daddy do if he hadn't come back, if a wolf had eaten him right up?

Sam rolls out of bed and crosses to Dean's bed. Gingerly, so he doesn't jostle the mattress, Sam lies down next to his brother.

Still asleep, Dean stirs, fingers twitching, but he doesn't wake up. Sam tucks his head under Dean's outstretched arm, just so. As he falls asleep, he decides that maybe he's not ready to hunt.

Not for a while yet.

~end

  
a/n: Because [Google books](http://google.books.com) is the most fun toy ever, information on the squonk came from _Giants, Monsters, and Dragons: An Encyclopedia of Folklore, Legend, and Myth_ By Carol Rose and _Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods_ by William Thomas Cox, as well as the [illustrated](http://borges.uiowa.edu/vakalo/zf/html/preface.html) _The Book of Imaginary Beings_ by J.L. Borges, which is when the plot bunny first tapped me.  



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